


have your cake and eat it too

by starsandsun



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Bulges, Belly Rubs, Bottom Jung Wooyoung, But also, Canon Compliant, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Sadism, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Stuffing, Top Choi San, and kind of a plot, i only projected a little bit, introducing tian's first, what the hell did I just write, woo cries and san thinks it's sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29795916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsun/pseuds/starsandsun
Summary: "You can eat it, Wooyoung," San murmurs encouragingly.Wooyoung's will is fracturing, cracks and fissures running through his self-control as San's very presence destroys it like it was never there. His cold hands clutch onto San's free one in a death grip so hard that he knows his knuckles have gone white, his arms shaking so badly with nerves that San's eyes soften. It's only when San squeezes his hand back reassuringly that Wooyoung relaxes a bit.He just wants to feel full. He's so tired of being empty."Go ahead."A tear slips out of Wooyoung's eye, sliding down his temple as he opens his mouth without a second thought and lets San feed him.(Or, self-control is hard when Wooyoung's on a diet. Luckily, he doesn't have to bother when San's around.)
Relationships: Choi San & Jung Wooyoung, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 5
Kudos: 103





	have your cake and eat it too

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING**  
> 
> 
> 1\. **this is a work of fiction.** i don’t know the ateez members personally and i don’t know their struggles.
> 
> 2\. **food is a central theme of this work.** please do not read this if anything food- or hunger-related is a trigger for you. there is an emphasis on stomach bulges, but i do not place any emphasis on weight gain. read at your own risk.
> 
> 3\. **wooyoung does not have an eating disorder, nor are his eating habits disordered.** it is assumed that he is on a strict diet supervised by professionals. the majority of the grief he feels is due to not being able to socialize with the other members, exacerbated by feelings of loneliness and isolation. ed’s are personal and different to everyone, so your struggles are valid regardless of what anyone else experiences or says. if at any time you feel invalidated, please close the tab.
> 
> 4\. **do not attempt extreme unsupervised weight loss/gain.** I do not condone unsupervised, unhealthy, or extreme weight loss/gain. please seek professional help. if you do practice feeding either by yourself or with a partner, make sure to be safe.
> 
> now that that's all out of the way, a huge thank you to [angie](https://twitter.com/skylovessan) for the prompt and [eafa](https://ao3.org/users/suijin) for cheering me on!
> 
> happy birthday angie, hope you like it <3

It all starts when Wooyoung goes on a diet.

He’s not allowed to eat much of the foods that he usually eats, looking on in frustration as Yeosang continues to stuff his face full of fried food, Jongho slurps banana milk, and Yunho offers him candies that he has to decline. Everyone just seems to be _eating_ all the fucking time with no consequence, and Wooyoung can’t go for mid-practice snacks or late-night takeout rendezvous anymore with the other members because he has to _watch his intake,_ according to his trainer.

He’s never had to hold himself back like this. Sure, he’s had to eat healthy at different times in his life before, like when they were gearing up for their debut and even for a few comebacks as well, but this time is different because he had, stupidly, told the company that he wanted to lose weight for good without really thinking about what commitment that would entail. Now, he’s on a strict diet that allows very few (read: no) cheat days until their promotions are done, however far into the future that may be.

Self-control is hard at first, with Wooyoung resisting the urge to snatch a spoonful of ice cream, a sip of soda, or a bite of leftovers, especially when the kitchen is right outside his doorway or when the choreographers call for a lunch break after several hours of perfecting formations. His mouth waters pitifully as he tries not to scream in exasperation because he’s forgotten what sugar or good fucking food in general tastes like as the other members consume whatever they want whenever they want with zero repercussions.

Wooyoung’s body doesn’t really know how to react to the change.

He’s never satisfied from a meal anymore, refraining from clearing his plate and constantly shrinking his portions down when he can, always happy to let somebody else take what he’s not supposed to finish. He drinks water in an effort to silence his rumbling stomach, but it’s not the same as he lies awake in bed at night scrolling through social media and his Youtube recommended because perpetual thoughts of food refuse to let him sleep. He can only curl tighter in on himself, hoping that Yeosang and Jongho in their bunks don’t hear the angry growls in the odd hours of the morning. There are times when he even doubles over from hunger pangs, trying to hide his plight from literally everyone and wishing the seconds would tick by faster when recording so he can finally sit down and try to get his head to stop pounding.

Occasionally Hongjoong will ask him if he’s okay, or Yunho will comment that he’s looking a little pale, or Seonghwa will ask if he needs more than a moment to catch his breath. The answer they always get is that he’s fine, that they can go back to whatever they were doing, that he doesn’t need to be waited upon like a child. Wooyoung doesn’t want anyone to worry because he’s fine. He’s fine and it’s not their business anyway.

Wooyoung doesn’t need anyone’s pity—he doesn’t need to feel more pathetic than he already does—and sometimes he’ll even find himself fuming for no reason, on the verge of lashing out and having one huge temper tantrum or mental breakdown.

Oddly enough, the only one who doesn’t ask Wooyoung outright how he’s doing is San.

Their relationship has always been a little bit different, as close as Wooyoung is with Yeosang and no matter how many idol friends Wooyoung makes outside of ATEEZ. It’s not like he can say anything when he’s had San’s dick in his mouth before. Once or twice. Okay, well, more than that. But Wooyoung doesn’t think that rushed handjobs under blankets or discreet blowjobs in bathrooms or however else they’ve fooled around over the past few years give San the authority to micromanage Wooyoung. However, it would at least warrant him to say a little something at least, right?

Wooyoung doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just overthinking it. Their after-lights-out activities are a quick and easy stress-reliever and nothing more. Or maybe it’s because Wooyoung just hasn’t been in the mood for anything sexual lately since he’s too tired and ill-tempered.

What he’s doing isn’t much cause for concern. He’s not starving himself, he’s really not. But the immense amount of exercise and the stress of learning intense choreography combined with lack of sleep or even a chance to really rest make it feel like it's so much worse than it really is. He wakes up dead every morning, feels like a zombie throughout the day, and falls back into bed dead every night.

But Wooyoung starts to see the effects of his undertaking when his clothes start to become baggier, when the veins on his arms start to become more prominent. When his cheeks start to hollow, when he starts to see the faint outline of abdominal muscles even when he’s not flexing. It’s oddly fitting, how he looks the same but _different,_ how he doesn’t quite feel like himself anymore.

It takes a while, but eventually Wooyoung becomes accustomed to the taste of iced Americanos with no sweetening—or, more like he forces himself to drink the bitter liquid because he’d have no energy otherwise, wincing every time he takes the first sip because his tongue can’t seem to adjust to the change. He becomes accustomed to bland food with no seasoning or salt, his palate longing for something spicy or sour or really anything that has flavor and doesn’t turn into sawdust mush in his mouth. He becomes accustomed to turning down anything that’s offered to him in dressing rooms, waiting rooms, the car, and even on variety shows.

He absolutely resents it, but if he wants to tone up for the next comeback, it’s a sacrifice that he has to make.

The workouts he’s doing have him in the company gym every day, breaking a sweat and working up an appetite, only to be disappointed when he gets back to the dorm to retrieve his pre-packed containers of boiled chicken breast and brown rice. Meanwhile, the others always take the liberty of ordering platters of kimbap and jjajangmyeon and galbi, the smell filling Wooyoung’s nose and making his taste buds cry until he can’t take it anymore and he hides in his room to choke down his meager sustenance in solitude.

As usual, San never says anything, not looking reassured in the slightest when Wooyoung makes excuses to not sit with the others and instead squirrels his scanty rations away like some kind of pack rat to eat by himself.

Wooyoung pretends this whole situation doesn’t bother him because this is really just an exercise in willpower. Soon his diet will be over and the comeback will be over and then he can finally eat whatever he wants. He can finally go to the 7-Eleven downstairs with Mingi after dance lessons or have spontaneous midnight talks over jjamppong with Seonghwa. It’s only temporary, he reassures himself. He’ll be able to enjoy things once again soon enough.

But Wooyoung is, simply put, miserable.

He’s irritable and tired all the time. It’s an extrovert’s worst nightmare to be left out of any situation, and it’s even worse because he feels somewhat alienated. It seems that he can’t spend any quality time with anyone else without being tempted to ruin his progress in one way or another. Somehow, bonding or any team-building exercise in general always has to be done over calorie-dense comfort food or café desserts.

Even gaming—one of Wooyoung’s favorite pastimes—becomes a struggle for him. He can barely focus on the PC screen when Yeosang challenges him in League with snacks he can’t have as collateral. And the weekly FIFA matches in the living room are always played over excessive amounts of junk and soft drinks.

It’s on one of these group game nights about two months into his suffering that yet again Wooyoung hides in the sanctuary of his dark room. The moonlight from the window and his phone are his only company, bundled in his sheets to prevent himself from staggering to the dining table and inhaling five whole boxes of pepperoni pizza in one go. Instead, he’s watching one of those gross mukbang videos to try and take his mind off of things, but only succeeds in making himself hungrier. The person on the screen stuffs an absurdly large piece of honeycomb into their mouth. He wonders what it would feel like if he was the one with dissolving saccharides on his tongue.

He wonders what it would feel like to finally feel full after so long. His stomach gurgles in agreement, and he clutches a hand to it as if that’ll somehow make the hole in his belly go away.

Wooyoung honestly feels like a husk of a person, isolated from even having fun because he knows he doesn’t have the mental fortitude to withstand pigging out and getting in trouble. The faint sounds of Mingi and Yunho howling with laughter float through the walls of the dorm, other cheers muffled in the undertones of their raucous clamor by the space separating Wooyoung from them. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry—he doesn’t ever think he could be angry at them for something that’s not even their fault.

Wooyoung just feels...empty. Unimaginably empty. His body always has little to nothing to digest and he’s forgotten what it feels like to be satisfied, to feel good after a meal.

The game goes on and the yelling just gets louder. He wants more than anything to be able to leave his room and not fantasize about how the buldak would burn his tongue or how the cheese tteokbokki would melt in his mouth or how the fried corn dog batter would crunch between his teeth—

_Wooyoung, no._

The resulting prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes shouldn’t even be there. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. This isn’t anything to cry over. He’s just frustrated that he can’t socialize like a normal fucking person, holed up in his room like a hermit isolated from the outside world, waiting for the morning to come so he can finally trick his body into thinking it’ll get what it craves. He just wants some peace of mind, to lie down without thinking about what he's missing out on or his stomach acid having a fit.

Wooyoung just wants to lie down after eating to his heart’s content and slip into a food coma, to sleep blissfully with a full stomach, cozy and warm.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the click of the door opening and closing.

“Wooyoung?”

Fuck.

Wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut and tries to even out his breathing while shifting his phone further under his covers to hide the light emitting from the screen. He’s torn. Part of him doesn’t feel like dealing with anyone right now, but at the same time the loneliness is eating him up from the inside. It’s already bad enough that his throat is closing up over the thought of someone thinking to check up on him.

“Yeah?” he rasps, not bothering to turn around.

“You wanna come play with us?”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer because quite frankly, he’s not in the mood, and he doesn’t trust him himself to talk while his chest is on fire with the pressure of trying not to cry. Thankfully his lack of a response is taken as a _no,_ but it’s not evidently not enough for him to be left alone again to wallow in his misery because he hears footsteps come closer and his bed dips with the weight of another person. His nose twitches. Is that…?

No.

_No._

“I saved you some,” San says quietly. 

Wooyoung takes a shuddered breath, not daring to turn and face San because he knows that any restraint he’s spent meticulously building up over the past couple of months will evaporate as soon as he lays eyes on whatever’s in San’s hands. His mouth betrays him and he starts to salivate uncontrollably, and he has to force himself not to drool on his pillow at even the notion of chewing on something that doesn’t taste like sand.

“I don’t want it,” Wooyoung grits out as best as he can without his voice cracking, but even he doesn’t sound convinced. _I want it._ The stillness hangs heavy in the air between them and the atmosphere is suddenly electric as San doesn’t respond, doesn’t make a move to get up and leave. Instead, he just sits, seemingly reading Wooyoung’s mind as Wooyoung’s heartbeat thunders in his ears.

The white noise is borderline uncomfortable, and Wooyoung’s stomach decides that it’s the perfect moment to get rid of the quiet. He presses his arms to his torso, hoping that they can somehow stifle the noise, but it’s already too late because it’s _loud_ and he knows San’s heard it too.

“Wooyoung,” San says softly, placing a hand on top of Wooyoung’s shoulder. Wooyoung can feel the heat of it through the material and has to stop himself from leaning into the touch because it doesn’t mean anything. Hongjoong probably asked him to come in here, or maybe San’s just being nice because he really doesn’t care about Wooyoung and— 

“Are you okay?”

Wooyoung doesn’t— _can’t_ —answer right away. A sob threatens to burst out of him when he feels the tears pool in his eyes, stinging hard enough it aches. _He doesn’t mean anything by it. He doesn’t care. You’re just lonely._ After more than a minute he sighs shakily, trying to keep his voice steady but failing as it comes out in a watery whisper because there’s no point in trying to hide it. And from San, of all people. “No.”

San’s thumb lightly brushes back and forth on Wooyoung’s t-shirt—a small comforting motion that Wooyoung wants to hate. Sure they’re technically best friends, they’ve seen each other naked, and they’ve gotten each other off countless times, but this—this is different.

Their dynamic has always been a simple one—comfortable friendship that comes naturally to them and that’s easy to play up in front of the cameras as well as the screeching fans. Of course they’ve had the sex talk (or, well, they haven’t _actually_ fucked) once they started to hook up on the regular, but they’ve never gone further than surface-level communication. They’ve never once brought up the topic of feelings, being exclusive, or even getting into a serious relationship. Wooyoung doesn’t know how he’d feel if they did because—

Because they’re not supposed to touch each other like this. San’s not supposed to look after Wooyoung like this or even think about taking care of him like this.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Wooyoung only sniffles because he has no answer to that. He knows, but he can’t possibly tell San how he feels, since he’s not even sure what he feels either. He can’t articulate just how empty and lonely he is and how his stomach has started to hurt the longer that San lingers near him with whatever he’s holding that smells absolutely delicious. He doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn't want to turn around because he can't turn around—

He turns around, shifting in his blankets to face San, to look up at San, whose face is scarcely illuminated by the dim of the city outside the window. His expression is near-unreadable in the darkness, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Wooyoung that even if Wooyoung demanded that he leave, he wouldn’t. Wooyoung swallows thickly when San never looks away, his hand hovering above Wooyoung’s shoulder, his fingertips barely ghosting over the fabric that exposes his collarbones.

Wooyoung can’t speak, and he gulps again because his mouth is wet but his throat is dry the longer he maintains eye contact with San. He wants to crawl all the way into a hole at the bottom of the Han River and die, cringing even harder internally as his stomach goes berserk when the delightful smell only gets stronger.

“I saved you some,” San repeats. His voice is soothing like a cup of hot cocoa or a bowl of steaming soup on a winter day. Wooyoung can’t look away from those eyes, glinting in the shadows, because they’re pulling him in and he’s teetering on the verge of losing his reason, about to tumble past the point of no return as he’s pulled into San’s magnetic orbit.

It’s a slow movement, and Wooyoung’s so distracted by the gravity of San’s gaze that he almost misses it. It’s San’s hand, his fingers nimbly picking something up off of the plate he’s holding. Time stands still. There’s too little light for Wooyoung to tell what it is, and his breath hitches in his throat when San puts it to his lips, answering a question that Wooyoung never had the courage to ask.

His will is fracturing, cracks and fissures running through his self-control as San’s very presence destroys it like it was never there.

Wooyoung just wants to feel full. He’s so tired of being empty.

A tear slips out of Wooyoung’s eye, sliding down his temple as he opens his mouth without a second thought and lets San feed him.

Wooyoung chokes on a sob when his mouth delicately closes around San’s fingers and flavor bursts onto his tongue. His sweet tooth purrs in approval. It’s amazing, undeniably his favorite hotteok—sweet pancake—from the bakery down the street. When did San have time to pick some up? Wooyoung has never tasted something so good. It might as well be like the first time he’s ever eaten, and he can’t help but gasp when the brown sugar and cinnamon melt on his tongue, holding the piece in his mouth because it’s so good but he’s _so afraid—_

“You can eat it, Wooyoung,” San murmurs encouragingly. 

Wooyoung makes a protesting noise in his throat because it’s not that he doesn’t trust San, it’s that he’s not allowed, he’ll get in so much trouble—

He doesn’t even realize at first, but his cold hands have somehow made their way out of the blankets, seeking San’s warmth and comforting aura. They clutch onto San’s free hand in a death grip so hard that he knows his knuckles have gone white, his arms shaking so badly with nerves that San’s eyes soften. It’s only when San squeezes his hand back reassuringly that Wooyoung relaxes a bit.

“Go ahead.”

Wooyoung obeys and chews slowly, savoring the way the treat dissolves when he swallows. San looks on, something like satisfaction on his face lifting up the corners of his mouth when he sees the way Wooyoung’s eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips in a silent plea because he wants _more_ but he doesn’t have the words.

San obliges him. Because out of everyone Wooyoung is close to, San is one of the people who knows him the best. Because San, although caring for Wooyoung in this particular way is definitely foreign, _does_ care for him to an extent. Because San knows when he is not okay and he’s there to catch Wooyoung when he falls.

There’s another piece of hotteok that presses against his lips, and he tries not to moan, the sound shaking in his throat when the mouthful of sugar and flour sits heavy on his tongue as San puts it there. He can feel more wetness on his cheeks because he’s so emotional without even meaning to be.

Something about this is unspeakably intimate, and Wooyoung doesn’t want to think about it.

Instead, he focuses on how his senses are cloyed with the still-high pile of hotteok on the plate. His diet, his ruined progress, and the consequences are a million miles away because all he can focus on is the inviting scent of the candied dough and the lasting sweetness that he yearns even more for now that he’s had a taste. Wooyoung’s stomach seems to agree as it demands more, but his brain has somehow maintained a smidge of its previously forgotten rationality when San holds another piece in front of him. He shouldn’t eat any more.

“Diet,” Wooyoung mutters, shaking his head ever so slightly, his voice wet with tears as his fingers dig into San’s hand, desperately trying to ground himself. He wants more—he wants San to keep feeding him, but he knows that soon enough two bites will turn into the whole plateful that San brought into his room because Wooyoung will do anything San asks him to do, especially when he’s in such a helpless state.

“You deserve it,” San responds tenderly. His hand moves to cup Wooyoung’s jaw, thumbing over the tears that have slid down his face. His palm is rough but the touch is so delicate that confusion climbs higher in Wooyoung’s gut. “You’ve been so good, hm?”

Wooyoung hiccups on another wave of sobs because after all these weeks of depriving himself of one of his sources of happiness, nobody had actually congratulated him on his progress, if he had even made any. Nobody had told him how he was doing, and he was left to spiral in a never-ending freefall of doubt—doubting his sanity, doubting his choice to take this on in the first place. He has never felt more alone in his life, and to have San pull him back like this, to hold his hand as Wooyoung cries in the dark like this, makes him feel some type of way that he can’t describe.

“You’re doing so well,” San says, his fingers featherlight and calming on Wooyoung’s skin. Wooyoung sniffles because he doesn’t quite believe it, so why is San telling him this? _He’s lying to make you feel better._ “I’m so proud of you, Wooyoung.”

More tears leak out of Wooyoung’s eyes against his will, his bottom lip trembling as he tries not to make any noise. His stomach won’t shut up, and it hurts so much with each passing second, the pangs seemingly tearing his organs apart.

“You deserve this, Wooyoung. You really do.”

Wooyoung’s eyes slip shut again because maybe San’s right. Maybe he does deserve it. A few more mouthfuls can’t hurt. He stifles another whine when he feels that San’s taken his hand off Wooyoung’s face to hold the piece of hotteok again, insistent at Wooyoung’s lips. He takes it, chewing and swallowing meekly as San watches him, making no move to retract his other hand from Wooyoung’s.

“That’s it, you’re so good,” San breathes, and Wooyoung whimpers at that because he’s tipping over, toppling, going to hit the ground, but San’s here with him. San’s here to cushion his fall and put the shards of his shattered self back together. San, the chaotic kind-hearted idol from Namhae that loves cats and reviewing restaurants. San, the master of giving his all on each stage he performs.

San, one of Wooyoung’s best friends and the person he would sacrifice everything for without hesitation.

As vulnerable as Wooyoung feels because nobody’s ever seen this side of him, he doesn’t think that anybody’s seen this side of San either. He’s never been this...attentive or gentle with Wooyoung. Everything else disappears, and there is only San and the way he’s treating Wooyoung with so much care that Wooyoung wants to stay here in this moment forever. 

San keeps feeding him, patiently handing him bite after bite, and before he knows it, Wooyoung’s finished the whole plate—five of the circular pastries total. Part of him wants to ask for more, to ask for San to get up and fetch him more of the sweet cake, to ask San to feed him again. But he doesn’t because it’s embarrassing and a sliver of uncertainty bubbles up in his throat before he can get the words out. There are too many unknowns. Why would San do this for him in the first place? Why would San even _consider_ doing this for him?

Instead, he can only let out shaky breaths as he tries to adjust to the feeling of satisfaction, his head thudding dully with the exertion of his earlier tears. He’s so deliciously sated that he could fall asleep, San’s warmth bleeding into his blankets. His eyelids are heavy and his head is fuzzy, his stomach full after such a long time that Wooyoung can’t really tell if it hurts or not. It’s only a few moments into the comfortable silence that San’s got his hand at Wooyoung’s mouth again. There’s no question about what he wants Wooyoung to do.

Wooyoung takes San’s fingers into his mouth, taking care to lap up the granules and sticky honey residue and suck them clean. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he swears through his hazy vision that San’s eyes glimmer with something dark—something that Wooyoung can’t put a name to. San only softly says something under his breath that Wooyoung doesn’t catch because he’s too focused on how even when there’s no more sugar left on San’s fingers, San doesn’t move.

Or, well, Wooyoung doesn’t let him.

He runs his tongue on the pads of San’s fingers, bobbing his head ever so slightly to make sure that he cleans them off completely, thoroughly, not going to waste a single drop of sweetness on his tongue. He’s eager and insatiable now, he knows. He’ll take anything he can get. San hadn’t even done anything and Wooyoung’s collapsed like a house of cards. All it took was the impeccable timing of Wooyoung’s crumbling resolve, some coaxing words in the darkness, and a plate full of one of his favorite foods.

It was so good that Wooyoung doesn’t think about the consequences that will inevitably follow. He doesn't think at all about the dirty looks his trainer will give him or how he’ll have to work twice as hard during the next few days.

He only sighs in contentment, the stabbing in his stomach subsiding as the minutes tick by. It’s warm under his blankets now since he’s stopped shivering from hunger. His grip on San’s hand loosens, but he doesn’t let go because nothing else matters in this moment. All that matters is he’s finally full after months of being empty.

And it’s all because of San.

“Good boy,” San whispers, almost inaudibly, into the quiet. Wooyoung makes a noise of affirmation because if San says that he’s good, then he’s good. He can’t trust his own judgment on these things, and the change of pace is surprisingly pleasant. It feels nice to have someone else take the reins and tell him that everything’s going to be alright. San leans down to press a kiss to Wooyoung’s forehead, his breath soft against Wooyoung’s skin. Wooyoung already feels him shift so he can stand up and leave.

Leave?

He can’t leave. He can’t leave Wooyoung like this. Wooyoung’s not ready for San to go and leave him alone with his thoughts, even if he’s about to fall asleep.

So he does something he never thought he’d ever do.

He grabs the front of San’s hoodie and pulls him down for a kiss.

It’s a last-ditch effort, a sort of sabotage to whatever San was going to do after he was done with Wooyoung. If he was going to go back to the other members to resume their game or head to his room to finally go to bed, then Wooyoung hopes that he’ll reconsider. Wooyoung can’t possibly be left alone in bed or even let Yeosang and Jongho see him in this state. He’s never felt this way before—a new dependence like a drug he’s tried for the first time.

San gasps into Wooyoung’s mouth, clearly surprised because for all his clinginess, Wooyoung’s never been one to initiate something as...personal as this. They’ve obviously kissed before, but Wooyoung’s usually all for rough and fast and dirty with teasing smiles and harsh words. Though he supposes that this is uncharted territory for him, where San provides a different kind of antidote for a different kind of sickness.

Each kiss is delightfully slow, each melting into the other and the next. It’s addicting, how Wooyoung’s perception is overloaded with San, how he still has the remnants of sweetness on his tongue, how the flavor mingles with comfort and calm. Wooyoung’s lips move against San’s, and he sighs into the kiss when San’s tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth as he sucks on Wooyoung’s bottom lip playfully.

Wooyoung doesn’t want to, but he pulls back to rest his forehead against San’s, weakly cupping San’s face.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, eyes closed. It’s hard to get the words out because he’s painfully aware that he’s still so full and the only thing distracting him from focusing entirely on the fact is that San might surrender him to the clutches of solitude once again. “Please, don’t go.”

San presses another kiss to the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth. “I have to change, then I’ll come back, m‘kay? How does that sound?”

“Okay,” Wooyoung whispers. 

He’s fine with anything as long as he knows San hasn’t abandoned him and won’t abandon him. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he feels San stand and pad away, his socks quiet against the hardwood as the door opens and shuts once again. Wooyoung dispels the lump in his throat, willing it away because the logical part of his brain knows that San will come back soon.

It feels like forever, but it can’t be more than a few minutes later when San reenters the room. Wooyoung’s dozing in and out of consciousness, toeing the fine line between dreamland and reality. His stomach feels like a balloon ready to burst but he revels in the feeling, heat radiating from the center of his body all the way out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He rests his hand over his belly for good measure, counting the seconds with his pulse under his sternum. He almost falls asleep like that, if not for the rustle of San rejoining him in his blankets.

“Scoot,” San orders as he slides into bed beside Wooyoung, huddling under the duvet with him and seeking the warmth that’s already nestled there. He cradles Wooyoung to him once they’ve shifted to mold together under the covers, his arms wrapped around him protectively like he’s the most precious thing in the universe.

Wooyoung has always been one for physical affection. He loves giving kisses, holding hands, hugging people. He never turns down an opportunity to hang onto someone, to stick onto them like glue. Here in San’s arms like this is even better. He’s safe, snug, and on top of that, full. San’s heartbeat is slow, the serene rhythm dull in Wooyoung’s ears.

San’s hand strokes through his hair, fingers running through the tangled strands. Wooyoung can tell that San’s wearing his favorite hoodie—the grey one that Wooyoung occasionally (often) steals because it smells like him. It’s nice, he supposes, just lying here like this in the dark. It’s very nice, actually, when he feels San kiss along his neck, his lips soft and raising goosebumps in every place they meet Wooyoung’s skin.

His fingers roam down Wooyoung’s chest, gently coming to hover over Wooyoung’s hand before sliding down to rest on his stomach, slipping under his shirt with ease. San’s palm on his bare skin is slightly cold but soon heats up the longer it lingers, sending shivers to every corner of Wooyoung’s body as it smooths along the soft lines of his abs and the sight bulge from his full stomach.

And oh—

_Oh._

Wooyoung muffles a whine when he feels San’s fingers press down on the sensitive skin, delicately feeling along the raised surface. San smiles against his neck, nibbling softly but not hard enough to leave marks, evidently knowing exactly what he’s doing with each gradually stronger push of his hand. Wooyoung shudders as San puts more pressure, wriggling in discomfort because he’s so full, but San seems to know that as he lets out a low chuckle.

Wooyoung pants and twists, eyes screwing shut as fire stirs in his gut, every morsel of the dull pain stoking the inferno brewing between them. It’s been too long since he’s felt any of these things before. He can’t take it anymore.

It’s different this time. At any other time, Wooyoung’s urges would hit him like a freight train—all at once—to where he would seek San out, crash their lips together, and take what he wanted without a second thought. But now, it’s different because it’s slow, because he’s sinking down into the depths of this unfamiliar ocean and San is the siren calling him further beneath the waves. He surrenders himself to the riptide, letting it carry him out to sea and pull him to the dark of the unknown.

“San,” Wooyoung whimpers because flames are dancing on San’s fingertips and he can’t breathe because he’s suffocating, lungs clouded with San invading every one of his senses. He wants to shy away from San’s prodding palm because it _hurts,_ but he can’t because he’s so sleepy and so satisfied, and he can’t decide if he wants more or not. “San, please—”

“Tell me what you want,” San breathes between kisses. His words are searing, leaving embers in their wake. Wooyoung gasps again when his fingers reach a particularly sore spot.

“Touch me, _please—_ please touch me,” he begs, his voice high and needy even to his own ears. He can’t think about anything else except for San’s hand on his stomach, daring to go lower to beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and the growing heat between his legs as he squeezes his thighs shut in anticipation. He needs it. He needs it so badly that he thinks he’ll go mad if San keeps stalling like this, tracing invisible patterns on the smooth skin of his waist and hips, avoiding the place where Wooyoung needs it most.

He _needs_ San.

San laughs again—mischievous, wicked like the devil he is when they do these things. But he thankfully heeds Wooyoung’s words, wrapping his hand around Wooyoung’s half-hard cock, squeezing hard enough that it’s borderline excruciating. He squirms in San’s hold as San captures his lips in his, swallowing Wooyoung’s stifled moans like he’s a parched man in the desert, drinking every sound from Wooyoung and not wasting a drop.

Wooyoung can’t kiss back because it’s so good, his hips jerking as he seeks the delicious friction that San doesn’t—won’t—provide. He tries to fuck upwards into San’s hand, the skin-on-skin almost painful because there’s no lube, but that just makes it better, more depraved.

San normally doesn’t tease him like this. He always gives Wooyoung what he wants when he wants it, never one to hesitate or drag anything out because they’re both terribly impatient people.

They’ve both never had the time either. Rushed and covert was always their go-to in order to not appear overly suspicious, as their schedules have been increasingly busy, and will only get busier as the year goes on. They rarely have a moment to themselves individually as it is, much less the two of them alone together.

But to have it slow like this, to not have to hurry, to have to beg for what he wants, Wooyoung thinks it’s so much better in a way. Even with the others in the living room, still shouting as the game progresses and someone wins another round, it feels like their voices are underwater.

It feels like Wooyoung and San have all the time in the world, in this world where it’s only the two of them free from the prying eyes of the public. Where they can forget the pressures of their everyday life and the outrage that would ensue if anybody else knew what they did together. Where they can only focus on each other, where Wooyoung can safely rest in the Elysium of San’s arms and take a breath.

“Please, hurts,” Wooyoung whispers against San’s mouth, his voice cracking in his desperation. His fingers wind in the front of San’s hoodie, clenching so hard that he can’t feel them anymore. His hips twitch again as San still doesn’t move his hand, Wooyoung’s cock leaking more precome as the seconds pass. It’s agonizing, being held in place like this, forced to wait for whatever San gives him and ultimately, being forced to take whatever San gives him.

When San does start lazily stroking Wooyoung in the tight circle of his hand, Wooyoung nearly cries out, and he feels the tears brimming over again. He’s embarrassingly close already and San’s barely touched him, thumbing the sensitive head of his cock to spread the precome for an easier slide. But it’s not enough because it’s not filthy or fast like he’s used to.

 _“More,”_ Wooyoung begs, writhing in San’s hold as if that will somehow encourage San to speed up. He would be mortified that San has him so worked up and he’s hardly done anything, but he’s too focused on San—San’s warmth, San’s hand, San’s mouth. “San—need more, _please—”_

“Shh,” San hushes him gently, his tongue tracing Wooyoung’s jaw, the puffs of his breath fanning out against Wooyoung’s cheek. “Let me take care of you.”

Wooyoung trembles at that, because now there’s confusion added to the haze of desire swirling in his brain. Of course he’s used to reciprocating, returning whatever San gives to him in kind. But he's never been taken care of before. He’s never had someone hold him so carefully like this, giving without expecting anything in return. San’s devoted himself wholeheartedly to Wooyoung. To making him feel good.

And he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Wooyoung’s so sensitive from having not touched himself in a while, and combined with the fact that he’s completely at San’s mercy, it gets him even more worked up. San’s whispering words of praise in his ear. His hand doesn’t speed up, but it delivers the same feeling as Wooyoung’s orgasm builds nonetheless, his thighs quivering with each motion as his legs spread further apart. His toes curl, ankles flexing as he gets close and he can only take it because he’s held fast in San’s arms.

It’s more than hot under the covers, sweltering as Wooyoung can’t keep still. He’s desperately trying to keep quiet, to not cry out so loudly that somebody who shouldn’t hear them does. He and San don’t need an intruder to disrupt the valuable time they have together.

Greedy. That’s what Wooyoung is, as he bucks his hips, so overtaken with the need to come as he pants into San’s mouth. Little whispers and breaths and half-moans of _please, please, please_ and _more, more, more_ and _San, San, San_ leave his lips uncontrollably. It’s so good, fireworks twirling on his skin and behind his eyelids when his vision sparks as he gets closer.

“You’re so good,” San murmurs, the vibrations of his voice low and sultry. Wooyoung basks in it like a cat in the sun. “You’re so good for me, baby. Doing so well, hm?”

Baby?

San’s never used pet names with him before, besides the odd _Wooyoungie_ when he’s being affectionate or _idiot_ when they’re fighting. But Wooyoung finds that he really doesn’t mind it. In fact, he _likes_ it because San’s taking care of him like this. Because San knows what he needs right now and it’s exactly that. Because San knows Wooyoung through and through and he’s the only one Wooyoung would let see him like this.

He’ll let San call him anything, because right now in this moment, he belongs to San. He’s San’s to take care of. He’s San’s to kiss and San’s to touch.

Wooyoung might as well be clawing at San’s chest now, fingers scrabbling for purchase, anything to regain the balance he’s lost. He’s so close now that it’s hard to breathe, the knot in his stomach about to unravel. He can feel his tears about to spill over again as San takes him to the peak.

“San, ‘m gonna come,” Wooyoung sobs, the words getting stuck in his throat. _“Please,_ San, _‘m gonna come—”_

His hand shoots down to grip at San’s arm, his fingers digging into the fabric and probably gripping hard enough to bruise. His lower body trembles, the muscles in his legs clenching and unclenching as he chases his high.

He opens his eyes to see San, staring right at him. Even through his blurry vision and the dark, he’s lost in the depth of San’s eyes, the intensity of them, a profundity so rich that he’s entranced by the maze of their twinkle as they shine in the dim light. He’s hooked, San his new addiction.

“Come for me,” San murmurs, his voice ragged, their gaze never breaking from each other’s.

That’s all Wooyoung needs to tumble over the edge.

He comes with a short cry—one that’s ravenously devoured by San so they aren’t discovered, but Wooyoung doesn’t care because heat ripples through him in swells so intense that he might black out. His vision goes white, and then black, his ears ringing as his heartbeat goes wild, his pulse fluttering with the intensity of it. It’s like he’s falling, like he’s taken a dive out of a plane with no parachute or off of a cliff into the shadowy waters below.

He tries to catch his breath, failing as San still drives him wild. His head lolls, hands shaking as pleasure radiates from between his legs. Every time he blinks, there’s the afterimage of San imprinted on his eyelids. San’s eyes, how Wooyoung could fall into them, rest in them, confide in them.

Wooyoung’s frame still jolts with the aftershocks of his orgasm, having not come that hard, or at all, in a long time. San’s still stroking him through it as he kisses his tears away, unrelenting even when Wooyoung’s whimpering small _ah-ah-ah_ ’s and feebly fumbling at San’s wrist while his hips convulse. He can feel the wetness of his come coat San’s hand. It’s hot on his sweatpants too, on his skin, on his shirt.

 _“Mm—”_ Wooyoung moans into San’s neck, weakly trying to push San’s hand away because it fucking _hurts._ He’s overloaded, overstimulated, oversensitive. He can’t take it, damp on his cheeks while San doesn’t stop. “H-Hurts.”

San pulls him close for another kiss, retracting his dirtied hand from Wooyoung’s pants and letting it rest on his stomach, once again finding its place, feeling how the slight bulge has now settled. He thumbs over the beginnings of the muscles that have started to form there with Wooyoung’s incessant exercise, probably marveling at the weeks of hard work that have melted the soft flesh away. Wooyoung hopes he’s not disappointed.

Wooyoung feels like he doesn’t have any oxygen left, but it’s fine because San is his oxygen now. San is the air he didn’t know he needed, the person to wait for him when everyone else left him behind. San shifts, probably making a move to go get something to clean Wooyoung up and—

And Wooyoung can feel that he’s hard against Wooyoung’s thigh.

“S-San,” Wooyoung tries to call out, but his voice doesn’t work as well as he hoped. Sleep is calling his name and he’s falling into its embrace quicker than he wants to. He wants to stay awake so he can spend more time with San, so he can take care of San just like he took care of Wooyoung. He wants to stay in this comfortable silence and relax in the afterglow of his release.

San seems to have sensed his concern. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says softly. He leans in and presses a tender kiss against Wooyoung’s forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up now.”

San slides out of bed, bending down so he can help Wooyoung out as well, picking him up in a bridal carry and letting Wooyoung wind his arms around his neck so he can hold on. Wooyoung feels himself blush because now he can tell that he’s made a complete mess of himself. And because of how San can just lift him so easily, evidently because he’s been doing workouts of his own.

He lets San take him to the bathroom, the gentle sway of his footsteps strangely comforting, sitting Wooyoung on the edge of the bathtub, faint city lights shining in through the window. San helps him undress, tossing the dirty clothes to the hamper at the side and fetching a damp towel. He kneels before Wooyoung so he can wipe away the stickiness on his skin.

The only word Wooyoung has to describe the action is _intimate._ He feels closer to San than he’s ever been before, looking at the care and focus in San’s eyes like this as he gently rubs away the sweat on Wooyoung’s skin. Wooyoung’s hand finds his free one, lightly interlacing their fingers together as San finishes up.

San is an attentive person—there’s no doubt about it. He puts so much time and energy into everything he does, giving his all regardless of what it is. He puts others first, ensuring their happiness before he even starts to think about his own. He’s selfless and kind, and it reflects especially now as he makes sure he cleans Wooyoung up thoroughly.

There’s a reason why Wooyoung’s parents had asked San to take care of him. And take care of him he did.

“All good?” San asks quietly in the silence. Wooyoung nods with a slight hum, his eyelids heavier than before, his head hanging in exhaustion. “Good.”

San pulls him up to stand, shedding his hoodie so he’s only clad in his sweatpants. He helps Wooyoung put it on. Wooyoung tries not to stare at San’s naked torso—when did he get so broad? When did his abs become so prominent? He’s always known San was built, lean and wiry with exercise only serving to fill out his already-perfect frame. But to see the fine-cut lines of his muscles up close and personal awakens something in Wooyoung.

He’s always known San was considered attractive, too, if thousands of screaming fans at concerts and on the internet are any indication, but it’s only hitting him now.

It’s only hitting Wooyoung now just how attractive San is, and he doesn’t want to think about it as he’s trying not to sway on his feet. He’ll mull over it tomorrow during his workout to make the minutes go by faster.

Wooyoung leans on San for support, enveloped by his scent like a flowery breeze on a spring day. San's hoodie is even bigger on him than he remembers, just barely covering the tops of his thighs as the sleeves engulf his entire hands so only his fingertips peek out. And even though they all use the same laundry detergent, something about this article of clothing smells so distinctly of San that Wooyoung wants to bury his nose in it forever.

San takes them back to bed, letting Wooyoung climb between the still-warm sheets before slotting their bodies together. Even though he’s facing away from San, Wooyoung’s hyper-aware of San’s body heat, every soft breath he takes, his hand sliding over Wooyoung’s side asking silently for permission.

San presses a final kiss against the nape of Wooyoung’s neck, nuzzling into his back like a cat as their legs tangle together. His hand once again finds a place on Wooyoung’s stomach, the presence of his palm almost protective as he rubs in gentle circles over the fabric. Wooyoung’s eyelids are heavy as he places his hand over San’s.

It’s immensely comforting, for Wooyoung to know that San did this for him, that San is holding him like this, that San will put his pieces back together when he knows Wooyoung is splintering, fracturing around the edges. San will put his pieces back together, running his hands along the lines of Wooyoung’s body with his healing touch of gold and silver, kissing along where Wooyoung cracks and filling in where he can’t himself. San paints his own image on Wooyoung that manifests in the brand of his lips on his body and the fullness he feels.

He doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, or even how Yeosang and Jongho will soon return. He tries to hold on as long as he can to savor the way they fit together so perfectly, San’s body the match to the dry tinder of Wooyoung’s. He’s playing with fire now, Pandora opening the box not knowing what he’ll find.

The last thing Wooyoung registers before he succumbs to the darkness is a gentle whisper of “Goodnight.”

When Wooyoung wakes up, San is gone, presumably already headed off to practice. He’s alone in the room, still in San’s hoodie, his sheets still smelling like San, the ghosts of San’s fingers still etched onto his body. Wooyoung regretfully changes, getting dressed to head to the company for his own workout session, clambering into the van with some difficulty because his limbs still feel like jelly. He’s not full anymore, his stomach rumbling once again because it’s digested all it was given, hungry for more. Wooyoung places his hand over it during the car ride absentmindedly, disappointed that he won’t feel like he did last night in a while. He doesn’t have the guts to do it himself. He won’t ruin his progress again of his own volition.

Not unless San feeds him.

He’s also confused, more confused than he can describe. He has no fucking idea what _that_ was last night. Did someone _tell_ San to go do it for him? Did San do it on his own? Has something changed between them, or will they pretend like nothing ever happened? Wooyoung feels mildly sick plagued by these thoughts, teetering to the gym on wobbly legs because he doesn’t know what to think.

Wooyoung gets the stink eye from his trainer once he sees how Wooyoung’s cheeks are swollen with a little bit more than sleep, but Wooyoung only stares at the floor and refuses to confirm his suspicions. He plugs in his earphones and gets to work, ignoring the protests of his empty stomach when he starts to stretch.

It’s about halfway through his session when he takes a break for water, sweat dripping down his face, a stitch in his side and his abdomen starting to cramp up from fatigue. His shirt is soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to his armpits and the back of his neck. It would be so nice to collapse and just lie down on the cold floor, maybe fall asleep and not have to wake up for another century.

His head spins as he settles back down on one of the machines, resting his head back against the cool metal frame while his chest heaves as he tries to steady his heart rate. He can hear voices in the hall outside of the thin glass walls of the gym. The dance lesson a few rooms down probably just ended, footsteps approaching to go get a snack in the kitchen.

Through his half-closed eyelids, Wooyoung can barely make out Yunho’s tall figure accompanied by Seonghwa’s slightly shorter one as they pass by, nodding at Wooyoung in acknowledgement. Wooyoung’s eyes start to slip shut again, but not before somebody else walks past.

It’s San.

He’s looking right at Wooyoung.

Wooyoung blinks himself awake, frozen in place as he hopes that the flush on his face from exercise masks the furious blush rising high on his cheeks. Sweat drips from San’s hairline into the collar of his shirt, making his bangs stick to his forehead—his forehead that he lifts his shirt up to wipe, exposing the hard planes of his abs only for a moment before the material falls again. The air is sucked out of the room as San holds Wooyoung’s gaze, his eyes piercing through Wooyoung right to his very core.

Time freezes and a million thoughts hurtle through his brain at once. He's suddenly super self-conscious, worrying about how gross he must look. Is San disgusted by him? Would they ever do what they did again? Does San regret what they did last night? Was San only playing some sort of sick game with him? 

Wooyoung gulps, too afraid to break eye contact and look away because San's stare holds him in place.

Then San winks, a crooked half-grin on his lips and his dimple making an appearance, and he disappears down the hall.

That’s all Wooyoung needs, letting out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

He catches himself smiling like a fool at random points of the rest of the day because he’s feeling unusually giddy, even brave and energetic enough to venture out of his room and sit with everyone else to watch a movie that night. He takes a spot beside San on the couch, timid at first but resting his head on San’s shoulder, nestling into his side as the evening progresses. 

Wooyoung's more content than he’s ever been in the past few months when San wraps his arm around him, pulling him closer so they can share the blanket. The others don’t even spare the two of them a second glance as Wooyoyung drifts off in San’s arms, his body heat and overall presence wonderfully intoxicating. Wooyoung doesn’t move as San’s hand finds its way to Wooyoung’s belly like a moth to flame, once again rubbing back and forth to the comforting rhythm of his own heartbeat. Wooyoung all but purrs at the gentle pressure, tucking his face further into San’s neck.

He doesn’t regret the night before, and he knows that San doesn’t either.

It was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only remember seeing those photos of san with his hands on wooyoung's stomach and angie sending me frantic dms then suddenly this existed. i don't remember writing half of it. get your sleep, kids.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for reading! find me on twitter [@starsandsunsan](https://twitter.com/starsandsunsan) for shitposts and my unfiltered stream of consciousness.


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